Breadcrumbs
by Kits
Summary: A naturalist perspective, naturally.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Secret Hogans

Author: Kits

Archive: Like I'm going to say no?

Disclaimer: *busy huggling Hogan and Olsen at the same time* 

Newkirk: Umm…. She's busy right now…

(sound of protest heard from Hogan)

Newkirk: *cough* *continues* But if you'd like to leave a message about the fact that this doesn't have a real disclaimer, then, erm, look below.

Feedback: Look above. My, this could become a vicious circle quickly…

The man gave the compound a furtive glance before passing a crumpled piece of paper with writing on it to Hogan, who slipped it nonchalantly into his jacket. The first man gave the Colonel a questioning look, which was answered by a slight incline of his head. Both walked away from each other to opposite sides of the compound.  
  
On the way, he crushed and opened the fold of paper in his pocket until he reached Barracks 2.  
One of his men looked up when he walked in and noticed his expression.  
  
"Another one, Colonel?" Carter said sympathetically.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Can I see it?"  
  
He sighed. " 'Fraid not, Carter. My eyes only."  
  
"Oh," his sergeant said disappointedly. "I understand."  
  
Sparing the blonde a warm pat on the shoulder, Hogan retreated to his quarters, shutting the door behind him. He sat at his desk and retrieved the note from his pocket.  
Smoothing the abused paper, he sighed as he deciphered the cramped handwriting.  
  
It read:  
  
Carter--Chemist apron  
Kinch--Book  
Lebeau--pot  
  
and so on with other names, a dash, then an object beside them.   
  
Hogan groaned and added it to a rapidly growing list of his own.  
  
"I hate going Christmas shopping for the guys!"


	2. Black Magic Man

Title: Black Magic Man

Author: Kits

Archive: Anyone who wants it is more than welcome to it.

Disclaimer: I own me, myself, and I. I stole Wilson's name from the lovely and charming ladies Patti and Marg, and I do hope they don't mind. I own Hogan, Olsen, and am sharing Newkirk with Bianca. Sorry, Carter is also Bianca's. Lebeau, however, is up for grabs. First come, first serve basis.

Feecback: Does a duck swim? Does a dog bark? Is Kits weird? 

BOOM!  
  
An explosion shook the tunnel and barracks above it. The bunks and the table in the center rocked precariously on the trembling floor.  
  


The men at the table, however, did not even show they were aware of any bombing going on.  
  
"Cup of coffee, Carter?" Kinch asked from his position near the stove.  
  
"No, thanks."  
  
"Newkirk?" the radioman offered.  
  
"Don't mind if I do," the Englishman accepted. Kinch poured him a cup and placed it on the table across from Newkirk.  
  
BOOM!  
  
The resulting tremors placed the cup comfortably within his reach.  
  
"Thank you," he said, sipping the aromatic black liquid.  
  
Kinch nodded. "No problem." He shifted his chair from where it had wandered over to the Colonel's door and sat down.  
  
BOOM!  
  
The poker game was temporarily halted while the group brushed off their shoulders, shook the dust from their hair, and moved back to the table.  
  
"I got the pot!" Carter reached down to pick up the various cookies on the floor. He blew off the dirt before placing them back in the middle.  
  
BOOM!  
  
Carter picked up his chair from where it had fallen and pulled it closer to the table.   
  


A head poked through the Barrack's door.  
  
"Everyone alright in here?" the camp medic asked. The circle of people at the table nodded absent-mindedly while shuffling through their cards.  
  
"Raise you... my dogtags," Carter said.  
  
"You can't bet those!" Lebeau exclaimed indignantly.  
  
BOOM!  
  
Wilson was knocked to his feet by the roiling earth. The men of Barracks 2 simply shifted their chairs close to the table again and glanced over once to make sure the medic was alright. He was.  
  


Sparing a disbelieving look at the poker-players, he lurched out the door again on unsteady feet.  
Hogan walked out of his office a few minutes (and bombs) later.  
  
"Hey, guys. What's in the pot?"

  
Kinch looked up from stroking his moustache.   
  
"Oatmeal, chocolate chip, and, uh," he gave a sheepish smile, "icebox cookies." Hogan grinned and stretched his hand down to rest on a nonexistent chair.   
  
BOOM!  
  
An unused chair immediately connected with Hogan's hand. He used his free one to cover a yawn.  
  
"Oh well, guys, I'm going to sleep. Night," he waved as he walked to his door tiredly.  
  
"Night, guv'nor."  
  
"G'nite, Colonel."  
  
"Bon nuit, mon Colonel."  
  
Olsen lifted his head briefly to say goodnight and gave a shout of dismay. The Colonel was about to trip over an errant baseball that had somehow rolled in front of his door. The others looked up at his cry and were about to warn the officer when--  
  
BOOM!  
  
--Hogan stepped right where the ball had just been before the last bomb had fell. He turned at Olsen's outcry, but the guys just stared at him.  
  
"Yes?" he prompted.   
  
"Umm, nothing. Goodnight, Colonel," Olsen stuttered.  
  
Shrugging, Hogan opened the door to his quarters and walked inside.  
  


Once the door closed, Kinch shook his head wonderingly.  
  
"How does he _do_ it?" he asked in an awe-filled voice.  
  
"Bloody magic is what it is."  
  
The others just shrugged and waited for the next bomb to shake their coffee to the original owners.


	3. KAMNTQJW

Title: Kangaroos and Mushrooms… It's Not the Question, Just Weird

Author: Kits

Archive: NO! NOWHERE! (Ha! April Fool's!)

Disclaimer: *holds up cookies* What do we say?

Hogan and Olsen: Kitty does not own any of this stuff, and we will not sue her.

Good boys. Here ya go. *hands them each cookies*

Feedback: Like Romeo needs Juliet, except without all that gushy love stuff…

"Mushroom."  
  
"Kangaroo."  
  
"Mushroom."  
  
"Kangaroo."  
  
"Mushroom."  
  
"Kangaroo."  
  
"Mushro-" Carter was cut off by a thoroughly puzzled and very annoyed Colonel.  
  
"Enough!" He held his hands out in an unmistakable plea for silence. Everyone gave him a startled look which changed to various expressions. Carter's face was a study of confusion, while Jeffrey--the Aussie captain Carter had been arguing with--looked irritated at being interrupted The group that had gathered around the two just looked disappointed that the show had been cut short.  
  
"Now," Hogan took a deep breath. "What _are_ you doing?!"  
  
Carter and Jeffrey blinked.  
  
"Debating," Jeff said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Hogan rolled his eyes upwards and prayed for patience.  
  
"I know _that_, but what about, _Captain_?" he put an emphasis on the last word that the Captain in question cheerfully disregarded.  
  
"Kangaroos and mushrooms."  
  
"Mushrooms and kangaroos," Carter jumped in.

"What do you—" Hogan paused and thought about it. When he spoke up, he used a different tack. "I think kangaroos, myself."

Jeff looked smug. "See, told ya so," he said in a juvenille tone of voice. Carter pouted.

"Fine, fine. You're right," he sighed. 

Satisfied he had stopped the argument, if not his curiosity, the Colonel walked off humming a tune.

"I still say that it'd be funnier to draw a mushroom on his shirts than a kangaroo," Carter said one last time.

Captain Jeffrey, however, was too busy making plans for Hogan's shirts to protest. 


	4. All for a Really Good Cup of Tea

Title: All for a Good Cup of Tea

Author: Kits

Feedback: Of course. How much do I have to pay you?

Archive: If you want to, go for it—although it would be pleasant to know about, if you want to tell me (hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink?)

Disclaimer: *takes deep breath* Under the law of 3738AF-2297, I, Kitty Jordan, being of sound mind (such as it is), solemnly swear that I do not… *trails off* *throws away script* Eh. I don't own any of this stuff, chances are I never will, but who knows, right? OH! Kinch is now property of Marilyn, since she asked so nicely. I _am_ working on a short one with a moose. I'm afraid it will only be in a book, though—are moose common in Germany? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? 

Pop-Up Ads currently on my monitor: Well, this really annoying one with a blonde guy that looks like the one from Money Pit only drunk and apparently trying to catch flies with his mouth. Oh, look, it says something above him… Some witty phrasing that involves kicking your career into gear. This is clever, people.

"I swear, one more day of this and I'm gonna—" the man cut himself off and settled instead for muttering dire threats beneath his breath as he hung up his coat.

            Another man, taller than the first, looked up from where he sat at the table. It was one of the few pieces of furniture in the austere white room, and even then only large enough to fit four people—five if you squeezed in another chair somewhere.

            "Rough night, Dave?" the tall man asked. He was of a lanky build, except for his face, which had somehow escaped the thinness and was a pleasant round shape. Locks of mouse-brown hair fell into his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently with his hand.

            He was likely to get a second look from a woman, but not more than that.

            "Are you kiddin' me?" Dave shook his head with irritation. "Belle, can you get me a cup of tea?"

            A young woman who had previously been lying curled comfortably on a shabby couch near one wall nodded, shut her book, and went to set the pot on the stove.

            "What happened?" the tall man asked sympathetically.

            Dave glowered. "Oh, it was lovely, Mike, just lovely. First that Russian is there and starts to make trouble. Then Hochstetter shows up and starts to breathe down Klink's neck and you know what _that_ means!"

            Mike winced. "What else?"

            "Well, Burkhalter can't resist not being in the area with Marya, and so he jumps on the bandwagon and shows up too! I tell you, I had to pull some miracles out of my hat to keep Newkirk safe!"

            Mike nodded and told him of his own plight.

            "I had to do some fast-thinking too. LeBeau kept wanting to stay in town and flirt with the pretty girl there at the Inn."

            A third man—a curly haired blonde with a face that was made for a smile—joined them.

            "The spy?" he questioned as he helped himself to a cup of tea."

            "That's the one," Mike confirmed.

            "Oh, boy," the blonde groaned. 

            "How was your night?" Belle asked amiably as she settled back onto the couch.

            "Fun," Blondie said sarcastically. "Carter fell over a rabbit hole and twisted his ankle."

            The others waited.

            "Again," he confirmed with a weary face.

            They patted him on the back and tried to comfort him as best they could. Of all of them, he was the busiest and most diligent. Joe sat mumbling something about 'trading off' and 'taking shifts.'

            Belle laughed—a delicate sound that gently echoes off the walls and sounded like the tinkling of tiny silver bells mingled with children laughing joyously.

            Dave looked vexed. "Could you please stop that?" he complained.

            Belle just shot him a petulant glare.

            The third man intervened.

            "Please, Belle?" He gave her his best pleading look with big blue eyes blinking unashamedly at her.

            She softened and grumbled, but the tinkling laughter ceased.

            "Anything for you, Joe."

            "What were you laughing about anyhow?" Mike queried with genuine curiosity. 

            "Oh, just that Kinch may not like it, but there are times I am infinitely glad he stays in his cave most of the time."

            "Tunnel," Mike corrected.

            "Whatever."

            Dave gave his wings a shake.

            "I tell you, being a guardian angel isn't all it's cracked up to be."

            The others chimed—literally, for Belle—in their agreement.

            "Meet new people. Protect them. Get good tea," Dave said bitterly. He stared at the tea, but declined saying anything further at the glare Belle shot at him. 

            Mike shrugged philosophically. "They wanted to recruit people stupid enough to fall for it."

            Joe had stopped mumbling and intoned gloomily, "And they found 'em. Boy, did they find us."

            There was silence for a while while each remembered the sales pitch they had fallen for. The quiet was broken however, when Mike leaned back in his chair.

            "I've been thinking. We protect the first team, right?"

            The others slid their eyes to look at him.

            "Yes…" Joe said slowly.

            "And for every guy in camp, there's a guardian angel, right?"

            "Sure," Belle shrugged. "Shirley, Deborah, Lynn—"

            "Bob, Bill, Mark, Luke, John," Dave added. "What's your point?"

            Mike tapped his teeth with his fingernail, a sign that he was pondering over something.

            "Well," he began slowly. "Have any of you ever met Hogan's guardian angel?"            

            Dave stared at him thoughtfully; Belle sat with her eyes narrowed and mouth open; and Joe had a confused frown on his handsome face.

            "Er," Dave said. "No."

            Just then, the door opened and a lady—in the loosest sense of the word—slinked in. A mass of chocolate brown curls cascaded down her back, and her eyes twinkled emerald green. She wore a tight black skirt with beads on it in a random pattern that confused your eyes when you looked too closely and a slit on one side that reached mid-thigh. Her shirt was a jade green that complimented her eyes, and was low-cut enough to compliment other attributes as well. Adorning her hands were rings and silver bracelets that clinked together as she waved them about in broad gestures. 

            "Was someone talking about me?" she purred in a silky voice. 

            Belle gave her a disdainful once-over.

            "You are _not_ a guardian angel," she stated.

            The woman let loose a husky laugh that bordered on the wild side.

            "Of course not, darling. But Hogan dear," she paused and gave a fond smile, like an owner who thinks of their most beautiful pet with indulgence, "doesn't _need_ a guardian angel when he has me, and so he doesn't _have _one." She paused again. "At the moment," she added.

            Dave frowned suspiciously. "Who are you, anyways?" 

            The minx sashayed over to where he was and dropped something on the table. 

            Dice.

            "Wouldn't you love to know?" She gave a decidedly predatory smirk.

            "Got to run, darlings—I have a world to play with."

            Raising her hands above her head, she clapped them together. Immediately thick clouds of purple and blue billowed around the room and the barely detectable scent of freesia permeated the air. When the haze finally cleared, they could see she was gone, which did not entirely surprise them.

            "Theatrics," Belle announced, though her voice sounded almost slightly envious.

            Joe grimaced. "She reminds me of Marya."          

            Idly picking up the dice on the table, Mike shook them in his hand and tossed them on the table.

            Belle blinked.

            "Look!" she pointed.

            On the dice were the words 

            LADY LUCK.

            "She couldn't be…" Mike started uncertainly.

            "No way…" Dave said.

            "Impossible…" Joe declared.

            They all trailed off when the dice lifted into the air, merged to form two eyes lined heavily with black and purple eyeshadow that winked at them before disappearing altogether.

            They looked at each other uneasily.

            "Naaaah."

            Nota Bene: This story was inspired by Linda who gave me such a very nice review (Thank you!!!), and is dedicated not only to her, but to all my friends on here. Which, erm, is pretty much everybody. :o) You're all lovely people and I love reading your works and your awesome reviews. Have a *wonderful, beautiful* day and if you want to see a story, let me know. I'm in a fanfic writing mood—strike while the iron is hot and all that. *grinz* Love ya, *hugglez to everybody* 

            P.S. My geometry is probably suffering for this, but I don't mind sacrificing in the name of a good cause… that and I really hate graphing, but hey!


	5. Part II: Revenge of the Students

Author: Kits

Title: When the Pupils Surpass

Archive: Of course.

Feedback: Equally of course.

A/N: Hullo, folksies! I've actually decided that my next five are going to have some semblance of a theme. That is, each will reveal a certain little bit of each of the main characters' lives. From the past, future, or present, doesn't matter… anyways, the first is about Hogan, Carter's next, followed by Newkirk's, LeBeau's, and last but certainly not least, Kinch's.

Steadfastly ignoring the cartoon kangaroo that had been embroidered on the pocket of his shirts, Hogan finished buttoning up the collar and pulled on his jacket, wincing slightly. His skin tugged in protest of the action, feeling almost as if it were tight around the small wound_. It felt better than last night, though only marginally_, Hogan thought to himself.

A knock on his door.

            "Come in," he called as he finished zipping his jacket.

            Kinch stuck first his head in, then opened the door further to reveal the rest of a full boxer frame. His face slid a casual mask on smoothly and he strolled the rest of the way in.

            "Good morning, sir," he said pleasantly. 

            "Good morning," Hogan smiled back, though inwardly he wondered at the occasion that Kinch would enter his office so casually.

            "Good work last night, wouldn't you say?" Kinch inquired innocently. He hid a triumphant smirk as the Colonel tilted his head to the side, looking a trifle uneasy at the mention of last night's mission.

            "Er, yeah, Kinch, I guess it was…" The Colonel's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

            _What's Kinch up to?_

The sergeant in front of him stuck out his hand.

            "Just wanted to shake your hand for another job well done." He waited with his breath held for his C.O. to take his hand. Instead, Hogan shifted uncomfortably and stared at the proffered hand as if it would bite him any minute now.

            "It was nothing. Just a routine job—" Hogan had to bite off the "sir" that customarily followed that sentence.

            _Dangit, Rob, you're in charge now!_

            Looking at the steely eyes that were watching him closely, however, he had to fight the urge to reply to his inner voice, _'That's what you think…'_

            "Nonetheless," his radioman once again pushed his open hand determinedly in Hogan's space.

            "Right." Gingerly shifting his shoulder, Hogan took hold of Kinch's hand and gave it a weak shake. He couldn't quite suppress the grimace that followed as Kinch returned with a much firmer handshake. He also did not notice the sergeant's eyes widen minutely as his keen eyes caught the motion.

            _Gotcha, Colonel!_

            Freeing his hand and letting it hang limp by his side, Hogan said, "See ya later, Kinch," and swung out the door too quickly to be mistaken for nonchalance. 

"Sooner than you think," the quiet reply was unheard by the unsuspecting officer. 

            After he was sure Hogan was far away—probably negotiating extra rations or more time until lights off—Kinch trudged into the common room and heaved a great sigh. The others looked up and waited to hear the news.

            "He did."

            Newkirk threw down his cards. "Bloody officers. Stupid, is what they are."

            "Boy, that just tears it. He could have at least told us," Carter lamented.

            Kinch shook his head. "You know how the Colonel gets. It's just pride, is all."

            "Stupidity," Newkirk repeated. Kinch shot him a reprimanding glare.

            "Just means that we move onto the Plan. Everyone know what to do?"

            The men of Barracks 2 nodded, and filed out with determined faces. They were men with a purpose.

"Hullo, sir. Ready for your physical?" Newkirk sidled up to Hogan with his hands in his pockets. Hogan was striding towards Barracks 2 but he gave a little stumble when he heard what the British man had said.

            "Physical?" Hogan asked questioningly.

            Newkirk took a deep breath. _Now for the fun part…_

            "Of course, sir." He stopped, placing a hand to his breast, and his eyes widened in feigned surprise. "Don't tell me you forgot?" 

            "Oh! No, no, I didn't forget," Hogan stammered theatrically although he couldn't remember any physicals before. He smelled a rat. "In fact, I was just thinking you should probably head over there now."

            Newkirk gave a little stumble himself. "Me, sir?"

            Grinning devilishly, Hogan threw his arms around Newkirk's shoulders and put on his best, 'I'm with you all the way but there's no way I'm getting within 10 yards of a needle' mask. "Yes, you. You're looking a bit pale lately."

            "Ah, well, that is, sir, I'm fine…"

            "I insist! As your commanding officer."

            "Yes, of course, um, yes, ah, are you, perhaps, coming with?" Newkirk asked hopefully.

            "Oh, no!" the Colonel staggered backwards as if the very idea had physically wounded him, "I couldn't! My men should come first. No, I won't get my physical until every man in this compound has had his first."

            "But, sir," Newkirk protested, "That will take weeks!"

            The officer nodded solemnly, making sure he was noted for this new bravery. "I know, but I'm willing to make that sacrifice. Off you go."

            Shoving an unwilling corporal into the infirmary, he continued on his path to the barracks only to be intercepted by Olsen.

            "Morning, Colonel."

            "Morning, Olsen." Hogan acted as if to step around the man only to have him suddenly in front of him again. "Er, yes?"

            "Yes, what, sir?" Olsen smiled brightly. Hogan stared into the guileless green eyes before coughing delicately.

            "Olsen?"           

            "Yes, sir?"

            "You're in my way."       

            Olsen looked down at the ground, at the colonel, and shuffled his feet a bit. "Why, golly, Colonel, I guess I am! Fancy that. Well, I'm so sorry, I mean, I just didn't want to bother you or anything, but I guess—"

            _I really need to put a stop to those chess games between him and Carter_, Hogan thought impatiently. "Yes! Olsen. Thank you. Can you move, please?"

            "Oh, of course, sir, why I wouldn't dream of standing in between you and—er, where did you say you were going, sir?"      

            The Colonel heaved a put-upon sigh. "I didn't."

            "Ah, the infirmary, I was just heading that way myself, you know, physicals and all that—"

            "Good, Newkirk's there. Tell him I said hello. Goodbye now." Hogan pushed past the lanky man and was stopped by a hand on his arm.

            "Um! I mean, aren't you going there yourself, Colonel?" His green eyes were clouded with worry and he sounded sincere. That rat certainly had a very distinct odor.

            "No. 'Fraid not, got work to do and all… it's hard running a prison camp, you know." He offered a lopsided smile that could not quite erase the suspicion in his eyes. 

            "Oh." Olsen looked disappointed and a trifle confused. "Right. Goodbye sir."

            "Goodbye, Olsen," Hogan said with some finality as the grip on his arm slackened enough for him to move forward again. He had barely made it five steps away when he heard Carter's youthful voice calling from across the compound.

            "Hey, Colonel!" 

            He may have felt bad about it, but he refused to sit and listen to Carter ramble on in an attempt to aid whatever the guys were obviously plotting. As discreetly as he could, he sped up and pretended not to hear the continuing calls. Yes, he felt like a cad. No, he was not going to slow down and let Carter catch up. Seeing his chance, he ducked 

between two barracks and doubled around behind the buildings. 

            Unfortunately, LeBeau apparently lay in wait in that spot. 

            "Here he is, Carter!" he called. The Colonel gave up pretending and sprinted for the nearest escape he could find, LeBeau, Newkirk, Olsen, Kinch, and Carter supposedly right behind.

            He ducked into one of the drab buildings and closed the door behind him as firmly as he could manage. He had scarce turned around when he heard a cheerful voice.

            "Good afternoon, sir. Come for your physical?" Wilson shoved the officer onto a nearby cot. "Take off your shirt and let me see that shoulder wound you've been hiding from us."

            Hogan groaned in defeat as he stripped off the garment and threw it petulantly on the cot beside him. Four grinning faces peeked around the corner and he growled at them all menacingly.

            "You planned this all along!" he said accusingly.

            Glancing at the sign reading "Infirmary", Kinch shrugged. 

            "Well, not exactly," he explained. At Hogan's dubious expression, he amended, "Okay, yes, we did, but it was necessary. I thought I had seen you get hit in the shoulder last night, but you didn't say anything about it, so I wasn't quite sure."       

            Newkirk chimed in, "And so this morning, we made Kinch go in and check to make sure he wasn't mistaken…"

            The rest of them gave sheepish smiles.

            "The problem is you guys are starting to think like me," Hogan grumbled. 

            "The problem is we have to. If Kinch hadn't seen, you never would have told us," LeBeau said with a fierce look.

            "Because it's nothing and it would have healed eventu—" he cut himself off with a painful hiss as Wilson dabbed antiseptic a tad harder than was strictly required.

            "Sorry," the medic said innocently.

            Hogan gave him a vexed look. "Sure you are. You know," he remarked casually, "I still outrank you."    

            Wilson didn't hide the smirk that spread itself across his face. 

            "CMO, sir. CMO."


	6. Mirror, Mirror, On the Stove

Title: Mirror, Mirror, On the Stove

Author: Kits

Disclaimer: Erm, no, don't own any of these. Except the thoughts, which were my own but I shamelessly inputted them into the character's mind so that I would have a story with some depth or something or other.

Feedback: Yasureyoubetcha!

Archive: Hey, hey, if you were a pirate, it would be an arrr-chive! Ha! Get it? Heh. Yeah.

Pop-Ups: None, thanks to the toolbar!

A/N: Ok, so I lied in my last author's note. But it's more fun if you try and guess who they are. In fact, put that in your reviews! Who you thought it was! Ah, that'd be fun

Staring at the mirror, I can't help but reflect (pardon the pun) on life. I mean, looking at me right now is a person who for all intents and purposes is me. Oh, he doesn't have substance, but he looks exactly like me. If you filled him out and gave him speech, no one would notice the difference.

            I tilted my head and thought about that, allowing the hand holding my razor to fall on the side of the sink. Now how about that? What if people _would _notice the difference, because he was a different person than I was. Maybe he is the reality, and I'm the reflection. I looked at my hands, and experimentally poked one. No, that felt pretty real. A pinch confirmed it. I was real. So he wasn't, then.

            Maybe we were both real, then. He could exist in some different reality, but we think so much alike--being the same person and all--that we both happen to shave at the same time, or look in the mirror at the exact same moment.

            No, that wouldn't work. Then why would a mirror be a mirror? Or any surface, for that matter. Maybe mirrors don't really reflect, we just think they do because we always see ourselves, and maybe that reflection is a reality existing somewhere else that meets ours in glass-like surfaces. Interesting. I waved my hand, and the reflection, or other me, waved its hand too. It would make sense, if he were a copy of me, that we would both have these musings at the same time.

            I wondered how many other people dedicated this time to looking at a mirror. It seems fantastic that other people might, but all at the same time, somehow not. Why don't more people? Don't they see that same interest that I see, when I look at one? It's fascinating.

            Take it as a metaphor for life. When we step away from the mirror, our reflection disappears. Doesn't the thought occur to anyone else that it could be a show of our own transitory existence? How we can be here one moment, but gone the next, with but one step? Especially apt when considering our jobs.

            For a moment there, I was afraid to step away from the mirror, for fear that I would disappear instead of _him,_ but a voice behind me snapped me out of it.

            "Hey, Carter, whatcha thinkin' about?" Kinch's deep voice asked inquisitively.

            "Ah, he's just lookin' at his own reflection, aren't you, Andrew?"

            "Makin' himself pretty for the ladies, right, Carter?"

            I smiled and shook my head. "Nah, just thinking."

            "About what?" the Colonel asked with a genuine smile. He arched an eyebrow and waited curiously for a response.

            "Oh…" I looked at them, gathered around, all giving me skeptical glances.. I grinned ruefully and shook my head. "Nothing. Nothing at all."


	7. Books

Title: Books

Author: Kits

Archive: Righto.

Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'.

Feedback: I'm a bit nervous about this one; as always, constructive criticism is accepted, as are flames. Free country and all that.

Author's Note: Er, so I'm trying something a bit different with this one. For one, this crumb is a tad bit more verbose than my others, and heavier on description. You know what they say, write what you know. Anyways, it's also not as funny, though I did put in a few things here and there. And mucho gracias to the wonderful and lovely beta Linda, who encourages and helps me in my writing… thing. Career. Not quite. Anyways, yadda, enjoy!

He shook his head to clear it. The problem with descriptions of books within books is you oft catch yourself thinking, "I need to read that!" before remembering the book itself existed only in fiction. Idly he wondered if anybody had ever begun a writing profession because they wanted a book like the one just described.

He flicked past a few pages, scanning the ink with the attentive eye of a lover of books, a connoisseur of words.

Ever since he could recall, books held a sort of magic to him. Many times he stayed at _Mac's Bookshack_, crouched between the shelves, peering thoughtfully through the dust at the bright titles.

Some days he never read them at all, choosing instead to gently run his fingers over their covers, or just breathe in the scent of new ink and fresh paper mingled with 'old-book' scent that permeated the air when he flicked through the pages quickly.

His capture nearly crushed him—the food tasted awful, but he had survived his mother's often times questionable culinary talents; the nights wore on hard and long and cold here, occasionally, but he suffered far worse on ill-fated camping trips where mosquitoes asked someone to pass the salt and the heat pressed down like a living thing; but to be nearly devoid of any reading almost proved to be a bleaker fate than any torture the Germans intentionally invented.

Within a week he soaked up every printed surface in camp and took to gazing with undisguised yearning at the untouched novels resting on Klink's shelves.

Hiding a grin while flicking a feather duster over the wood, he remembered the thrill of filching a newspaper at the drug store or shoving a magazine under his jacket when the storeowner looked the other way.

He grew up in a rough neighborhood; most of the street lived on nickels and pennies--'trying to stand on two broken legs' as his dad referred to it.

His own parents subscribed to the philosophy that it was easy to have morals when you have a full stomach, and whole-heartedly encouraged his skills when he brought back something useful.

Once, when he turned twelve, he tried swiping a book from the 'Shack, but Mac caught him by the collar on the way out and shook it out of him. His ears rang for days after that encounter.

Even after the incident, Mac let him in--albeit under a watchful and wary eye--but he didn't even think about trying again. When Mac taught a lesson, it stuck.

Moving on to brush away the dust bunnies that accumulated on top of Klink's safe, another unbidden memory came to mind.

He had saved up enough cash to buy a book one day and he hurried home to read it. For days he stared at the cover and back summary at the shop, reading it over until he could recite the paragraph verbatim. It took forever to finally nick enough stuff and pawn it to get the money, but he made it.

On the way home, though, a couple of guys he knew found him.

To call them friends would be an overstatement of gross proportions; to call them mere acquaintances, a false assumption.

They lived in the same neighborhood, one only a street away from his own house. He ran with them occasionally, more for the slim protection it afforded him than for the camaraderie.

Neither of the boys made any claims to astounding intellect, nor were they stupid. People in that neighborhood survived as a pack of wolves, each snarling and turning on each other for no reason other than pure meanness. Cunning, streetwise, lower than a snake.

All of the above.

Cornering him out of boredom, they toyed with him. Threw a few insults at him. Ripped up his book, and left him bleeding and bruised in an alley before wandering off to find some other victim to taunt.

What they did to him, in his mind, was negligible compared to the damage done to the book. That was unforgivable.

"Hey, Olsen, you gonna dust that safe all day?" an impatient voice snapped him from his reverie.

"Uh, no. Nah, I'm comin'," he tossed out casually. Turning to leave, he trailed his fingers along a thin paperback lying beside the desk.

Slipping it into his pocket, he closed the door quietly on his way out.

Books. That's where he learned the word 'kleptomaniac' from.


	8. Unappreciated

Title: Unappreciated

Author: Kits

Archive: If the whim strikes you

Disclaimer: The character in this is original, though seen in the show, and therefore … sort of… I guess… ah, never mind.

Feedback: Keeps the kittens and puppies alive.

Unappreciated, that's what I am. I'm absolutely pivotal—pivotal, I tell you—to the entire operation, and who gets the credit? Hogan, or Kinch, or any of them. They don't even notice me. No one does, except when they need me for something.

Ha, one day I'll show them though. Just when they least expect it, bam! I'll refuse to work and they'll spend the rest of the day cajoling me and attempting to make me—no, no I won't. I know how important this is, and how I am, even if they don't. People are counting on me, even if they don't know it, and I can't let them down because of my selfishness.

But when they gather around me because they need something from me, talking excitedly and listening to me… well, sometimes it bothers me; as if I'm not there until they need me. Now, isn't that something for the philosophers out there? Does a thing exist if one does not need it? That, see, that, is a deep thought. One of the deepest, and the most profound, but no one ever listens to these deep thoughts of mine or understands me when I think of them. No one. Not even the great Hogan or the enthusiastic Carter or the emotional LeBeau… Kinch treats me like I'm no more than an object, sometimes, talking about me as if I weren't sitting right there, in front of him, or complaining about me when something happens that's completely out of my control.

Unappreciated.

Used and abused, my friends, used and abused—abused! Only useful for two things, that's what I'm good for: making coffee when one of the guys wants some and reporting on what's going on in Klink's office.

Why, if I weren't a coffee pot, I'd show them a thing or two!


	9. Butcheredus Latinus

Title:

**Title:** Butcheredus Latinus

**Author:** Kits

**Rating:** K

**Feedback:** I've heard of that!

**Disclaimer:** Wait, wait… nah. Still not mine.

Today, we explore the rugged wilds of untamed prisoner life to catch a glimpse of the several rare and exotic species transplanted to Germany. The zoos in Germany are sadly lacking the amenities and habitat seen in nature around these animals, but the captive animals have shown great ingenuity in reforming the zoo to fit their own standards--including their captors.

Stirring the soup and making several guttural sounds loosely termed as "French" by naturalists is the friendly _Gourmetus Chefus_. This particular creature will not attack unless provoked, but is considered quite violent when its territory is threatened by invaders. Its typical diet consists of cafe au lait, crepe suzette, and pretty girls with berets. The _Gormetus Chefus_ uses its French to attract and woo a mate in an elaborate ritual often involving materials gathered around its area: wine is a popular gift to be shared between the lovebirds. The natural habitat of the _Gormetus Chefus_ is on a sunny sidewalk cafe in Paris, but as evidenced by this particular specimen's content humming, the species is well known for its adaptability under harsh circumstances.

Though not naturally socially inclined, _Gormetus Chefus's_ will form a close bond with the more rugged _Englandus Thiefus_, frequently seen rifling through other species' nests and valuables, which it then secrets away in its own stash. Not unlike a raven, _Englandus Thiefus_ is strongly attracted to shiny objects and is an expert at mimicry. This particular male stays clad in blue all year long, hoping to attract a mate, though the scarcity of females in the region seems to be affecting his spirits. Have no fear, gentle viewers, for the _Englandus Thiefus_ has used natural selection to become as adept as _Gourtmetus Chefus _in the face of adversity. Unlike the _Gormetus Chefus_, however, _Englandus Thiefus_ have little to no discerning tastes and can frequently be seen scavenging for fish and chips, even when perfectly acceptable food is elsewhere. But no matter--for what should waltz through the door of this cage but _Americanus BoomBoomus!_ and _Americanus Over-and-Outus._ The former is quite well known for being quite social, even with other species. They often show a fondness for the company of others, being natural herd creatures. Domesticated, they make wonderful pets, except for a strange affinity for things generally considered dangerous. Many an unsuspecting pet owner has let their guard down, only to find the _Americanus BoomBoomus!_ has made like a curious cat. It is theorized that this penchant for trouble is what led to the evolutionary need for companionship in the form of other animals, as evidenced by the close relationship between the _Americanus Over-and-Outus_. The _Americanus Over-and-Outus_ is a generally quiet, peace-loving animal who has a curious habit of growing fur to keep his upper lip warm all year round. They are naturally solitary animals, but this male has clearly made an exception in light of his captivity.

If we remain quiet, we may be able to hear and see the creatures as they act in the wild.

"Smells like you're stewing socks in here, mate," _Englandus Thiefus_ says.

"Englanders," _Gourmetus Chefus_ let out an indelicate snort common to the species. "No taste."

"I've got plenty of taste!" _Englandus Thiefus_ reaches into to his pocket to pull out a shiny watch, generously lightening the load of one of the guards. "This watch right 'ere, for instance. She's a real beauty, isn't she?"

The _Americanus BoomBoomus!_ inches closer. "Gee, Newkirk, that's a swell watch."

"I'll let you 'ave it for a pack of cigarettes and a candy bar."

The _Americanus Over-and-Outus_, still silent, deters the _Englandus Thiefus_ from stealing the _Americanus BoomBoomus!'s_ food in a show of solidarity not uncommonly formed in captivity between very dissimilar creatures. Through a complex system of rank, the four have a specific hierarchy for settling disputes. _Englandus Thiefus_ regularly challenges the hierarchy, meeting with mixed success.

The most elusive creature of all, however, has sequestered himself in his cave. Only he lives there, though he often brings mates in briefly. This is the _Superus Geniusus_, known commonly as "Colonel". The Colonel is a wily animal who survives using his wits and natural advantages. The Colonel is well known for his voice, which he can use in several ways. An incessant chattering may be used to distract enemies and ward off would-be-intruders, while a melodious, smooth tune may be used to charm even his captors. The Colonel shows several inconsistencies that baffle those who wish to study this handsome creature. Though normally quite private creatures, they nonetheless form strong attachments to those closest to them, showing strong aggressiveness when they are threatened.

The Colonel frequently camouflages himself as a member of the poisonous _Nazius_ genus to fool predators and is skilled at imitation. Members of this species are often mistaken by amateurs as domesticated, but rest assured that the Colonel remains as untamed as in the wild, though occasionally they will deign to help themselves to the luxury of domestication once in a while.

_Superus Geniusus_ may frequently be seen soaring amongst the clouds, but sadly this specimen has had his wings clipped by his captors and must scavenge on the ground.

All of the creatures seem to share a strong symbiotic bond that no doubt keeps them healthy within the confines of their temporary cages. With renovations coming soon, hopefully these beautiful, rare creatures may return to their natural habitats soon.

Next, we will look at the _Germanus_ kingdom, specifically the _Sergeantus I-Know-Nothingicus_. With extreme luck, we may be able to witness the curious courtship rituals of the _Frau-Shudderus Linkmeyerus_ and _Monocleus Buffoonus_. Stay tuned for more exciting installments.


End file.
